IN    THE    SEVEN    WOODS 


BY 

THE 

SAME 

WRITER 

The 

Secret 

Rose 

The 

Celtic 

Twilight 

Poems 

The 

Wind 

AMONG    THE    REEDS 

The 

Shadowy  Waters 

Ideas 

of  Good  and 

Evil 

IN  THE  SEVEN  WOODS 

Being  Poems   Chiefly  of  the 
Irish  Heroic  Age 


BY 

W.    B.   YEATS 


^ERSITY 

THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1903 

All  rights  reserved 


CI 


Copyright,  1903, 

By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 

Set  up,  electrotyped,  and  published  August,  1903. 


Norton  oti  ^Dregg 

J.  S.  Cushinp;  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.  U.S.A. 


IN   THE   SEVEN   WOODS 


\  or 


IN    THE    SEVEN    WOODS:     BEING 

POEMS     CHIEFLY    OF    THE 

IRISH    HEROIC    AGE. 

IN    THE    SEVEN   WOODS. 

I  have  heard  the  pigeons  of  the  Seven  Woods 
Make  their  faint  thunder,  and  the  garden  bees 
Hum  in  the  lime  tree  flowers  ;  and  put  away 
The  unavailing  outcries  and  the  old  bitterness 
That  empty  the  heart.      I  have  forgot  awhile 
Tara  uprooted,  and  new  commonness 
Upon  the  throne  and  crying  about  the  streets 
And  hanging  its  paper  flowers  from  post  to  post, 
Because  it  is  alone  of  all  things  happy. 
I  am  contented  for  I  know  that  Quiet 
Wanders  laughing  and  eating  her  wild  heart 
Among  pigeons  and  bees,  while  that  Great  Archer, 
Who  but  awaits  His  hour  to  shoot,  still  hangs 

A  cloudy  quiver  over  Parc-na-Lee. 

August,  1902. 
B  I 


THE  OLD  AGE  OF  QUEEN  MAEVE. 

Maeve  the  great  queen  was  pacing  to  and  fro, 
Between  the  walls  covered  with  beaten  bronze, 
In  her  high  house  at  Cruachan ;  the  long  hearth, 
Flickering  with  ash  and  hazel,  but  half  showed 
Where  the  tired  horse-boys  lay  upon  the  rushes, 
Or  on  the  benches  underneath  the  walls, 
In  comfortable  sleep ;  all  living  slept 
But  that  great  queen,  who  more  than  half  the  night 
Had  paced  from  door  to  fire  and  fire  to  door. 
Though  now  in  her  old  age,  in  her  young  age 
She  had  been  beautiful  in  that  old  way 
That's  all  but  gone ;  for  the  proud  heart  is  gone 
And  the  fool  heart  of  the  counting-house  fears  all 
But  soft  beauty  and  indolent  desire. 
She  could  have  called  over  the  rim  of  the  world 
Whatever  woman's  lover  had  hit  her  fancy, 
And  yet  had  been  great  bodied  and  great  limbed, 
Fashioned  to  be  the  mother  of  strong  children  ; 
And  she'd  had  lucky  eyes  and  a  high  heart, 
And  wisdom  that  caught  fire  like  the  dried  flax, 

i 


At  need,  and  made  her  beautiful  and  fierce, 
Sudden  and  laughing. 

O  unquiet  heart, 
Why  do  you  praise  another,  praising  her, 
As  if  there  were  no  tale  but  your  own  tale 
Worth  knitting  to  a  measure  of  sweet  sound  ? 
Have  I  not  bid  you  tell  of  that  great  queen 
Who  has  been  buried  some  two  thousand  years? 

When  night  was  at  its  deepest,  a  wild  goose 
Cried    from    the    porter's   lodge,   and  with   long 

clamour 
Shook  the  ale  horns  and  shields  upon  their  hooks ; 
But  the  horse-boys  slept  on,  as  though  some  power 
Had  filled  the  house  with  Druid  heaviness ; 
And  wondering  who  of  the  many  changing  Sidhe 
Had  come  as  in  the  old  times  to  counsel  her, 
Maeve  walked,  yet  with  slow  footfall  being  old, 
To  that  small  chamber  by  the  outer  gate. 
The  porter  slept  although  he  sat  upright 
With  still  and  stony  limbs  and  open  eyes. 
Maeve  waited,  and  when  that  ear-piercing  noise 

3 


Broke  from  his  parted  lips  and  broke  again, 
She  laid  a  hand  on  either  of  his  shoulders, 
And  shook  him  wide  awake,  and  bid  him  say 
Who  of  the  wandering  many-changing  ones 
Had  troubled  his  sleep.      But  all  he  had  to  say 
Was  that,  the  air  being  heavy  and  the  dogs 
More  still  than  they  had  been  for  a  good  month, 
He  had  fallen  asleep,  and,  though  he  had  dreamed 

nothing, 
He  could  remember  when  he  had  had  fine  dreams. 
It  was  before  the  time  of  the  great  war 
Over  the  White-Horned  Bull,   and   the    Brown 

Bull. 

She  turned  away ;  he  turned  again  to  sleep 
That  no  god  troubled  now,  and,  wondering 
What  matters  were  afoot  among  the  Sidhe, 
Maeve  walked  through  that  great  hall,  and  with  a 

sigh 
Lifted  the  curtain  of  her  sleeping  room, 
Remembering  that  she  too  had  seemed  divine 
To  many  thousand  eyes,  and  to  her  own 

4 


One  that  the  generations  had  long  waited 

That  work  too  difficult  for  mortal  hands 

Might  be  accomplished.     Bunching  the  curtain  up 

She  saw  her  husband  Ailell  sleeping  there, 

And  thought  of  days  when  he'd  had  a  straight 

body. 
And  of  that  famous  Fergus,  Nessa's  husband, 
Who  had  been  the  lover  of  her  middle  life. 

Suddenly  Ailell  spoke  out  of  his  sleep, 

And  not  with  his  own  voice  or  a  man's  voice, 

But  with  the  burning,  live,  unshaken  voice 

Of  those  that  it  may  be  can  never  age. 

He  said,  c  High  Queen  of  Cruachan  and  Mag  Ai 

A  king  of  the  Great  Plain  would  speak  with  you/ 

And   with     glad    voice     Maeve    answered    him, 

cWhat  King 
Of  the  far  wandering  shadows  has  come  to  me  ? 
As  in  the  old  days  when  they  would  come  and  go 
About  my  threshold  to  counsel  and  to  help.' 
The  parted  lips  replied,  c  I  seek  your  help, 
For  I  am  Aengus  and  I  am  crossed  in  love.' 

5 


'  How  may  a  mortal  whose  life  gutters  out 
Help  them  that  wander  with  hand  clasping  hand 
By  rivers  where  nor  rain  nor  hail  has  dimmed 
Their  haughty  images,  that  cannot  fade 
Although  their  beauty's  like  a  hollow  dream/ 

£  I  come  from  the  undimmed  rivers  to  bid  you 

call 
The  children  of  the  Maines  out  of  sleep, 
And  set  them  digging  into  Anbual's  hill. 
We  shadows,  while  they  uproot  his  earthy  house, 
Will  overthrow  his  shadows  and  carry  off 
Caer,  his  blue  eyed  daughter  that  I  love. 
I  helped  your  fathers  when  they  built  these  walls 
And  I  would  have  your  help  in  my  great  need, 
Queen  of  high  Cruachan/ 

1  I  obey  your  will 
With  speedy  feet  and  a  most  thankful  heart : 
For  you  have  been,  O  Aengus  of  the  birds, 
Our  giver  of  good  counsel  and  good  luck/ 
And  with  a  groan,  as  if  the  mortal  breath 
Could  but  awaken  sadly  upon  lips 

6 


That  happier   breath  had    moved,  her    husband 

turned 
Face  downward,  tossing  in  a  troubled  sleep ; 
But  Maeve,  and  not  with  a  slow  feeble  foot. 
Came  to  the  threshold  of  the  painted  house, 
Where  her  grandchildren  slept,  and  cried  aloud, 
Until  the  pillared  dark  began  to  stir 
With  shouting  and  the  clang  of  unhooked  arms. 

She  told  them  of  the  many-changing  ones ; 
And  all  that  night,  and  all  through  the  next  day 
To  middle  night,  they  dug  into  the  hill. 
At  middle  night  great  cats  with  silver  claws, 
Bodies  of  shadow  and  blind  eyes  like  pearls, 
Came  up  out  of  the  hole,  and  red-eared  hounds 
With  long  white  bodies  came  out  of  the  air 
Suddenly,  and  ran  at  them  and  harried  them. 

The  Maines'  children  dropped  their  spades,  and 

stood 
With  quaking  joints  and  terror  strucken  faces, 
Till  Maeve  called  out,  c  These  are  but  common 

men. 

7 


The   Maines'   children   have    not    dropped    their 

spades 
Because  Earth  crazy  for  its  broken  power 
Casts  up  a  show  and  the  winds  answer  it 
With  holy  shadows.'      Her  high  heart  was  glad, 
And  when  the  uproar  ran  along  the  grass 
She  followed  with  light  footfall  in  the  midst, 
Till  it  died  out  where  an  old  thorn  tree  stood. 

Friend  of  these  many  years,  you  too  had  stood 

With  equal  courage  in  that  whirling  rout ; 

For    you,   although    you've   not    her    wandering 

heart, 
Have  all  that  greatness,  and  not  hers  alone. 
For  there  is  no  high  story  about  queens 
In  any  ancient  book  but  tells  of  you, 
And  when  I've  heard  how  they  grew  old  and  died 
Or  fell  into  unhappiness  I've  said  ; 
c  She  will  grow  old  and  die  and  she  has  wept ! ' 
And  when  I'd  write  it  out  anew,  the  words, 
Half  crazy  with  the  thought,  She  too  has  wept ! 
Outrun  the  measure. 

8 


I'd  tell  of  that  great  queen 
Who  stood  amid  a  silence  by  the  thorn 
Until  two  lovers  came  out  of  the  air 
With  bodies  made  out  of  soft  fire.     The  one 
About  whose  face  birds  wagged  their  fiery  wings 
Said, c  Aengus  and  his  sweetheart  give  their  thanks 
To  Maeve  and  to  Maeve's  household,  owing  all 
In  owing  them  the  bride-bed  that  gives  peace.' 
Then  Maeve,  c  O  Aengus,  Master  of  all  lovers, 
A  thousand  years  ago  you  held  high  talk 
With  the  first  kings  of  many  pillared  Cruachan. 
O  when  will  you  grow  weary.' 

They  had  vanished, 
But  out  of  the  dark  air  over  her  head  there  came 
A  murmur  of  soft  words  and  meeting  lips. 

BAILE   AND    AILLINN. 

Argument.  Baile  and  Aillinn  were  lovers,  but 
Aengus,  the  Master  of  Love,  wishing  them  to  be 
happy  in  his  own  land  among  the  dead,  told  to 
each  a  story  of  the  other's  death,  so  that  their 
hearts  were  broken  and  they  died. 

9 


I  hardly  hear  the  curlew  cry, 
Nor  the  grey  rush  when  wind  is  high, 
Before  my  thoughts  begin  to  run 
On  the  heir  of  Ulad,  Buan's  son, 
Baile  who  had  the  honey  mouth, 
And  that  mild  woman  of  the  south, 
Aillinn,  who  was  King  Lugaid's  heir. 
Their  love  was  never  drowned  in  care 
Of  this  or  that  thing,  nor  grew  cold 
Because  their  bodies  had  grown  old ; 
Being  forbid  to  marry  on  earth 
They  blossomed  to  immortal  mirth. 

About  the  time  when  Christ  was  born, 
When  the  long  wars  for  the  White  Horn 
And  the  Brown  Bull  had  not  yet  come, 
Young  Baile  Honey- Mouth,  whom  some 
Called  rather  Baile  Little-Land, 
Rode  out  of  Emain  with  a  band 
Of  harpers  and  young  men,  and  they 
Imagined,  as  they  struck  the  way 
To  many  pastured  Muirthemne, 

10 


That  all  things  fell  out  happily 
And  there,  for  all  that  fools  had  said, 
Baile  and  Aillinn  would  be  wed. 

They  found  an  old  man  running  there, 
He  had  ragged  long  grass-yellow  hair ; 
He  had  knees  that  stuck  out  of  his  hose ; 
He  had  puddle  water  in  his  shoes ; 
He  had  half  a  cloak  to  keep  him  dry ; 
Although  he  had  a  squirrel's  eye. 

O  wandering  birds  and  rushy  beds 
You  put  such  folly  in  our  heads 
With  all  this  crying  in  the  wind 
No  common  love  is  to  our  mind, 
And  our  poor  Kate  or  Nan  is  less 
Than  any  whose  unhappiness 
Awoke  the  harp  strings  long  ago. 
Yet  they  that  know  all  things  but  know 
That  all  life  had  to  give  us  is 
A  child's  laughter,  a  woman's  kiss. 

ii 


Who  was  it  put  so  great  a  scorn 
In  the  grey  reeds  that  night  and  morn 
Are  trodden  and  broken  by  the  herds, 
And  in  the  light  bodies  of  birds 
That  north  wind  tumbles  to  and  fro 
And  pinches  among  hail  and  snow? 

That  runner  said, c  I  am  from  the  south  ; 
I  run  to  Baile  Honey-Mouth 
To  tell  him  how  the  girl  Aillinn 
Rode  from  the  country  of  her  kin 
And  old  and  young  men  rode  with  her : 
For  all  that  country  had  been  astir 
If  anybody  half  as  fair 
Had  chosen  a  husband  anywhere 
But  where  it  could  see  her  every  day. 
When  they  had  ridden  a  little  way 
An  old  man  caught  the  horse's  head 
With  "  You  must  home  again  and  wed 
With  somebody  in  your  own  land." 
A  young  man  cried  and  kissed  her  hand 
"  O  lady,  wed  with  one  of  us  ;  " 

12 


And  when  no  face  grew  piteous 
For  any  gentle  thing  she  spake 
She  fell  and  died  of  the  heart-break/ 

Because  a  lover's  heart's  worn  out 
Being  tumbled  and  blown  about 
By  its  own  blind  imagining, 
And  will  believe  that  anything 
That  is  bad  enough  to  be  true,  is  true, 
Baile's  heart  was  broken  in  two ; 
And  he  being  laid  upon  green  boughs 
Was  carried  to  the  goodly  house 
Where  the  Hound  of  Ulad  sat  before 
The  brazen  pillars  of  his  door ; 
His  face  bowed  low  to  weep  the  end 
Of  the  harper's  daughter  and  her  friend  ; 
For  although  years  had  passed  away 
He  always  wept  them  on  that  day, 
For  on  that  day  they  had  been  betrayed ; 
And  now  that  Honey-Mouth  is  laid 
Under  a  cairn  of  sleepy  stone 
Before  his  eyes,  he  has  tears  for  none, 

!3 


Although  he  is  carrying  stone,  but  two 
For  whom  the  cairn's  but  heaped  anew. 

We  hold  because  our  memory  is 

So  full  of  that  thing  and  of  this 

That  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind. 

But  the  grey  rush  under  the  wind 

And  the  grey  bird  with  crooked  bill 

Have  such  long  memories  that  they  still 

Remember  Deirdre  and  her  man, 

And  when  we  walk  with  Kate  or  Nan 

About  the  windy  water  side 

Our  heart  can  hear  the  voices  chide. 

How  could  we  be  so  soon  content 

Who  know  the  way  that  Naoise  went  ? 

And  they  have  news  of  Deirdre's  eyes 

Who  being  lovely  was  so  wise. 

Ah  wise,  my  heart  knows  well  how  wise. 

Now  had  that  old  gaunt  crafty  one, 
Gathering  his  cloak  about  him,  run 
Where  Aillinn  rode  with  waiting  maids 
Who  amid  leafy  lights  and  shades 


Dreamed  of  the  hands  that  would  unlace 

Their  bodices  in  some  dim  place 

When  they  had  come  to  the  marriage  bed ; 

And  harpers  pondering  with  bowed  head 

A  music  that  had  thought  enough 

Of  the  ebb  of  all  things  to  make  love 

Grow  gentle  without  sorrowings  ; 

And  leather-coated  men  with  slings 

Who  peered  about  on  every  side ; 

And  amid  leafy  light  he  cried, 

c  He  is  well  out  of  wind  and  wave, 

They  have  heaped  the  stones  above  his  grave 

In  Muirthemne  and  over  it 

In  changeless  Ogham  letters  writ 

Baile  that  was  of  Rury's  seed. 

But  the  gods  long  ago  decreed 

No  waiting  maid  should  ever  spread 

Baile  and  Aillinn's  marriage  bed, 

For  they  should  clip  and  clip  again 

Where  wild  bees  hive  on  the  Great  Plain. 

Therefore  it  is  but  little  news 

That  put  this  hurry  in  my  shoes.' 

J5 


And  hurrying  to  the  south  he  came 
To  that  high  hill  the  herdsmen  name 
The  Hill  Seat  of  Leighin,  because 
Some  god  or  king  had  made  the  laws 
That  held  the  land  together  there, 
In  old  times  among  the  clouds  of  the  air. 

That  old  man  climbed  ;  the  day  grew  dim  ; 
Two  swans  came  flying  up  to  him 
Linked  by  a  gold  chain  each  to  each 
And  with  low  murmuring  laughing  speech 
Alighted  on  the  windy  grass. 
They  knew  him  :  his  changed  body  was 
Tall,  proud  and  ruddy,  and  light  wings 
Were  hovering  over  the  harp  strings 
That  Etain,  Midhir's  wife,  had  wove 
In  the  hid  place,  being  crazed  by  love. 

What  shall  I  call  them  ?  fish  that  swim 
Scale  rubbing  scale  where  light  is  dim 
By  a  broad  water-lily  leaf; 
Or  mice  in  the  one  wheaten  sheaf 
Forgotten  at  the  threshing  place ; 

16 


Or  birds  lost  in  the  one  clear  space 

Of  morning  light  in  a  dim  sky; 

Or  it  may  be,  the  eyelids  of  one  eye 

Or  the  door  pillars  of  one  house, 

Or  two  sweet  blossoming  apple  boughs 

That  have  one  shadow  on  the  ground ; 

Or  the  two  strings  that  made  one  sound 

Where  that  wise  harper's  finger  ran ; 

For  this  young  girl  and  this  young  man 

Have  happiness  without  an  end 

Because  they  have  made  so  good  a  friend. 

They  know  all  wonders,  for  they  pass 
The  towery  gates  of  Gorias 
And  Findrias  and  Falias 
And  long-forgotten  Murias, 
Among  the  giant  kings  whose  hoard 
Cauldron  and  spear  and  stone  and  sword 
Was  robbed  before  Earth  gave  the  wheat ; 
Wandering  from  broken  street  to  street 
They  come  where  some  huge  watcher  is 
And  tremble  with  their  love  and  kiss. 
c  17 


They  know  undying  things,  for  they 
Wander  where  earth  withers  away, 
Though  nothing  troubles  the  great  streams 
But  light  from  the  pale  stars,  and  gleams 
From  the  holy  orchards,  where  there  is  none 
But  fruit  that  is  of  precious  stone, 
Or  apples  of  the  sun  and  moon. 

What  were  our  praise  to  them  :  they  eat 
Quiet's  wild  heart,  like  daily  meat, 
Who  when  night  thickens  are  afloat 
On  dappled  skins  in  a  glass  boat 
Far  out  under  a  windless  sky, 
While  over  them  birds  of  Aengus  fly, 
And  over  the  tiller  and  the  prow 
And  waving  white  wings  to  and  fro 
Awaken  wanderings  of  light  air 
To  stir  their  coverlet  and  their  hair. 

And  poets  found,  old  writers  say, 
A  yew  tree  where  his  body  lay, 
But  a  wild  apple  hid  the  grass 

18 


With  its  sweet  blossom  where  hers  was ; 
And  being  in  good  heart,  because 
A  better  time  had  come  again 
After  the  deaths  of  many  men, 
And  that  long  righting  at  the  ford, 
They  wrote  on  tablets  of  thin  board, 
Made  of  the  apple  and  the  yew, 
All  the  love  stories  that  they  knew. 

Let  rush  and  bird  cry  out  their  fill 

Of  the  harper's  daughter  if  they  will, 

Beloved,  I  am  not  afraid  of  her 

She  is  not  wiser  nor  lovelier, 

And  you  are  more  high  of  heart  than  she 

For  all  her  wanderings  over-sea ; 

But  I'd  have  bird  and  rush  forget 

Those  other  two,  for  never  yet 

Has  lover  lived  but  longed  to  wive 

Like  them  that  are  no  more  alive. 


IQ 


THE   ARROW. 

I  thought  of  your  beauty  and  this  arrow 
Made  out  of  a  wild  thought  is  in  my  marrow. 
There's  no  man  may  look  upon  her,  no  man. 
As  when  newly  grown  to  be  a  woman. 
Blossom  pale,  she  pulled  down  the  pale  blossom 
At  the  moth  hour  and  hid  it  in  her  bosom. 
This  beauty's  kinder  yet  for  a  reason 
I  could  weep  that  the  old  is  out  of  season. 

THE  FOLLY  OF  BEING  COMFORTED. 

One  that  is  ever  kind  said  yesterday  : 
c  Your  well  beloved's  hair  has  threads  of  grey 
And  little  shadows  come  about  her  eyes  ; 
Time  can  but  make  it  easier  to  be  wise 
Though  now  it's  hard,  till  trouble  is  at  an  end  ; 
And  so  be  patient,  be  wise  and  patient,  friend.' 
But  heart,  there  is  no  comfort,  not  a  grain. 
Time  can  but  make  her  beauty  over  again 
Because  of  that  great  nobleness  of  hers ; 
The  fire  that  stirs  about  her,  when  she  stirs 

20 


Burns  but  more  clearly  ;  O  she  had  not  these  ways 
When  all  the  wild  summer  was  in  her  gaze. 

0  heart,  O  heart,  if  she'd  but  turn  her  head, 
You'd  know  the  folly  of  being  comforted. 

THE  WITHERING  OF  THE  BOUGHS. 

1  cried  when  the  moon  was    murmuring  to  the 

birds, 
£  Let  peewit  call  and  curlew  cry  where  they  will, 
I  long  for  your  merry  and  tender  and  pitiful  words, 
For  the  roads  are  unending  and  there  is  no  place 

to  my  mind.' 
The  honey-pale  moon  lay  low  on  the  sleepy  hill 
And  I  fell  asleep  upon  lonely  Echtge  of  streams  ; 
No  boughs  have  withered  because  of  the  wintry 

wind, 
The  boughs  have  withered  because  I   have  told 

them  my  dreams. 

I  know  of  the  leafy  paths  that  the  witches  take, 
Who  come  with   their  crowns  of  pearl  and  their 
spindles  of  wool, 

21 


And  their  secret  smile,  out  of  the  depths  of  the 
lake; 

And  of  apple  islands  where  the  Danaan  kind 

Wind  and  unwind  their  dances  when  the  light 
grows  cool 

On  the  island  lawns,  their  feet  where  the  pale 
foam  gleams ; 

No  boughs  have  withered  because  of  the  wintry- 
wind, 

The  boughs  have  withered  because  I  have  told 
them  my  dreams. 

I    know  of  the  sleepy  country,  where  swans  fly 

round 
Coupled  with  golden    chains   and    sing    as   they 

fly, 

A  king  and  a  queen  are  wandering  there,  and  the 

sound 
Has  made  them  so  happy  and  hopeless,  so  deaf 

and  so  blind 
With  wisdom,  they  wander  till  all  the  years  have 

gone  by ; 

22 


or 

.ZRSIT  ■ 

or 

I  know,  and  the  curlew  and  peewit  on  Echtge  of 
streams ; 

No  boughs  have  withered  because  of  the  wintry- 
wind, 

The  boughs  have  withered  because  I  have  told 
them  my  dreams. 

ADAM'S   CURSE. 

We  sat  together  at  one  summer's  end 

That  beautiful  mild  woman  your  close  friend 

And  you  and  I,  and  talked  of  poetry. 

I  said  c  a  line  will  take  us  hours  maybe, 

Yet  if  it  does  not  seem  a  moment's  thought 

Our  stitching  and  unstitching  has  been  naught. 

Better  go  down  upon  your  marrow  bones 

And  scrub  a  kitchen  pavement,  or  break  stones 

Like  an  old  pauper  in  all  kinds  of  weather ; 

For  to  articulate  sweet  sounds  together 

Is  to  work  harder  than  all  these  and  yet 

Be  thought  an  idler  by  the  noisy  set 

Of  bankers,  schoolmasters,  and  clergymen 

The  martyrs  call  the  world.' 

23 


That  woman  then 
Murmured  with  her  young  voice,  for  whose  mild 

sake 
There's  many  a  one  shall  find  out  all  heartache 
In  finding  that  it's  young  and  mild  and  low. 
(  There  is  one  thing  that  all  we  women  know 
Although  we  never  heard  of  it  at  school, 
That  we  must  labour  to  be  beautiful.' 

I  said,  c  It's  certain  there  is  no  fine  thing 
Since  Adam's  fall  but  needs  much  labouring. 
There  have  been  lovers  who  thought  love  should 

be 
So  much  compounded  of  high  courtesy 
That  they  would  sigh  and  quote  with  learned  looks 
Precedents  out  of  beautiful  old  books ; 
Yet  now  it  seems  an  idle  trade  enough.' 

We  sat  grown  quiet  at  the  name  of  love. 
We  saw  the  last  embers  of  daylight  die 
And  in  the  trembling  blue-green  of  the  sky 
A  moon,  worn  as  if  it  had  been  a  shell 

24 


Washed  by  time's  waters  as  they  rose  and  fell 
About  the  stars  and  broke  in  days  and  years. 

I  had  a  thought  for  no  one's  but  your  ears  ; 
That  you  were  beautiful  and  that  I  strove 
To  love  you  in  the  old  high  way  of  love  ; 
That  it  had  all  seemed  happy,  and  yet  we'd  grown 
As  weary  hearted  as  that  hollow  moon. 

THE   SONG   OF    RED    HANRAHAN. 

The    old    brown  thorn  trees  break  in  two  high 

over  Cummen  Strand 
Under  a  bitter  black  wind  that  blows  from  the 

left  hand, 
Our  courage  breaks  like  an  old  tree  in  a  black 

wind  and  dies ; 
But  we  have  hidden  in  our  hearts  the  flame  out 

of  the  eyes 
Of  Cathleen  the  daughter  of  Houlihan. 

The  wind  has  bundled  up  the  clouds  high  over 
Knocknarea 

25 


And  thrown  the  thunder  on  the  stones  for  all  that 

Maeve  can  say. 
Angers    that   are   like  noisy  clouds  have  set  our 

hearts  abeat ; 
But  we  have  all  bent  low  and  low  and  kissed  the 

quiet  feet 
Of  Cathleen  the  daughter  of  Houlihan. 

The  yellow  pool  has  overflowed  high  up  on 
Clooth-na-Bare, 

For  the  wet  winds  are  blowing  out  of  the  cling- 
ing air ; 

Like  heavy  flooded  waters  our  bodies  and  our 
blood ; 

But  purer  than  a  tall  candle  before  the  Holy  Rood 

Is  Cathleen  the  daughter  of  Houlihan. 

THE    OLD    MEN    ADMIRING   THEM- 
SELVES   IN   THE   WATER. 

I  heard  the  old,  old  men  say 
c  Everything  alters, 
And  one  by  one  we  drop  away.* 
26 


They  had  hands  like  claws,  and  their  knees 

Were  twisted  like  the  old  thorn  trees 

By  the  waters. 

I  heard  the  old,  old  men  say 

c  All  that's  beautiful  drifts  away 

Like  the  waters/ 

UNDER   THE    MOON. 

I  have  no  happiness  in  dreaming  of  Brycelinde ; 
Nor  Avalon  the  grass  green  hollow,  nor  Joyous  Isle, 
Where  one  found  Lancelot  crazed  and  hid  him 

for  a  while, 
Nor  Ulad  when  Naoise  had  thrown  a  sail  upon 

the  wind, 
Nor  lands  that  seem  too  dim  to  be  burdens  on 

the  heart, 
Land-under- Wave,  where  out  of  the  moon's  light 

and  the  sun's 
Seven  old  sisters  wind  the   threads  of  the  long 

lived  ones, 
Land-of-the-Tower,    where    Aengus    has    thrown 

the  gates  apart, 

27 


And  Wood-of- Wonders,  where  one  kills  an  ox  at 

dawn 
To  find  it  when  night  falls  laid  on  a  golden  bier : 
Therein    are    many    queens    like    Branwen,    and 

Guinivere ; 
And   Niam,  and    Laban,  and    Fand,  who   could 

change  to  an  otter  or  fawn 
And  the  wood-woman  whose  lover  was  changed 

to  a  blue-eyed  hawk ; 
And  whether  I  go  in  my  dreams  by  woodland,  or 

dun,  or  shore, 
Or  on  the  unpeopled  waves  with  kings  to  pull  at 

the  oar, 
I  hear  the  harp  string  praise  them  or  hear  their 

mournful  talk. 
Because  of  a  story  I  heard  under  the  thin  horn 
Of  the  third  moon,  that  hung  between  the  night 

and  the  day, 
To  dream  of  women  whose  beauty  was  folded  in 

dismay, 
Even  in  an  old  story,  is  a  burden  not  to  be  borne. 


28 


THE  PLAYERS  ASK  FOR  A  BLESSING 
ON  THE  PSALTERIES  AND  THEM- 
SELVES. 

Three  Voices  together 

Hurry  to  bless  the  hands  that  play. 

The  mouths  that  speak,  the  notes  and  strings, 

O  masters  of  the  glittering  town  ! 

O  !  lay  the  shrilly  trumpet  down, 

Though  drunken  with  the  flags  that  sway 

Over  the  ramparts  and  the  towers, 

And  with  the  waving  of  your  wings. 
First  Voice 

Maybe  they  linger  by  the  way ; 

One  gathers  up  his  purple  gown  ; 

One  leans  and  mutters  by  the  wall ; 

He  dreads  the  weight  of  mortal  hours. 
Second  Voice 

O  no,  O  no,  they  hurry  down 

Like  plovers  that  have  heard  the  call. 
Third  Voice 

O,  kinsmen  of  the  Three  in  One, 

29 


O,  kinsmen  bless  the  hands  that  play. 
The  notes  they  waken  shall  live  on 
When  all  this  heavy  history's  done. 
Our  hands,  our  hands  must  ebb  away. 
Three  Voices  together 

The  proud  and  careless  notes  live  on 
But  bless  our  hands  that  ebb  away. 

THE    RIDER    FROM    THE    NORTH. 

From  the  play  of  The  Country  of  the  Young. 

There's  many  a  strong  farmer 
Whose  heart  would  break  in  two 
If  he  could  see  the  townland 
That  we  are  riding  to  ; 
Boughs  have  their  fruit  and  blossom, 
At  all  times  of  the  year, 
Rivers  are  running  over 
With  red  beer  and  brown  beer. 
An  old  man  plays  the  bagpipes 
In  a  golden  and  silver  wood, 
Queens,  their  eyes  blue  like  the  ice, 
Are  dancing  in  a  crowd. 

30 


The  little  fox  he  murmured, 
c  O  what  is  the  world's  bane  ? ' 
The  sun  was  laughing  sweetly, 
The  moon  plucked  at  my  rein ; 
But  the  little  red  fox  murmured, 
c  O  do  not  pluck  at  his  rein, 
He  is  riding  to  the  townland 
That  is  the  world's  bane.' 

When  their  hearts  are  so  high, 

That  they  would  come  to  blows, 

They  unhook  their  heavy  swords 

From  golden  and  silver  boughs  ; 

But  all  that  are  killed  in  battle 

Awaken  to  life  again  ; 

It  is  lucky  that  their  story 

Is  not  known  among  men. 

For  O  the  strong  farmers 

That  would  let  the  spade  lie, 

For  their  hearts  would  be  like  a  cup 

That  somebody  had  drunk  dry. 


3i 


The  little  fox  he  murmured, 
'  O  what  is  the  world's  bane  ? ' 
The  sun  was  laughing  sweetly, 
The  moon  plucked  at  my  rein ; 
But  the  little  red  fox  murmured, 
c  O  do  not  pluck  at  his  rein, 
He  is  riding  to  the  townland 
That  is  the  world's  bane.' 

Michael  will  unhook  his  trumpet 

From  a  bough  overhead, 

And  blow  a  little  noise 

When  the  supper  has  been  spread. 

Gabriel  will  come  from  the  water 

With  a  fish  tail,  and  talk 

Of  wonders  that  have  happened 

On  wet  roads  where  men  walk, 

And  lift  up  an  old  horn 

vOf  hammered  silver,  and  drink 

Till  he  has  fallen  asleep 

Upon  the  starry  brink. 


32 


The  little  fox  he  murmured, 
c  O  what  is  the  world's  bane  ?  ' 
The  sun  was  laughing  sweetly, 
The  moon  plucked  at  my  rein ; 
But  the  little  red  fox  murmured, 
c  O  do  not  pluck  at  his  rein, 
He  is  riding  to  the  townland, 
That  is  the  world's  bane.' 
I    made    some    of   these    poems    walking   about 
among  the  Seven  Woods,  before  the  big  wind  of 
nineteen  hundred  and  three  blew  down  so  many 
trees,  &  troubled  the  wild  creatures,  &  changed  the 
look  of  things  ;  and  I  thought  out  there  a  good 
part  of  the  play  which  follows.    The  first  shape  of 
it  came  to  me  in  a  dream,  but  it  changed  much  in 
the  making,  foreshadowing,  it  may  be,  a  change 
that  may  bring  a  less  dream-burdened  will  into  my 
verses.    I  never  re-wrote  anything  so  many  times  ; 
for  at  first  I  could  not  make  these  wills  that  stream 
into  mere  life  poetical.      But  now  I   hope  to  do 
easily  much  more  of  the  kind,  and  that  our  new 
Irish  players  will  find  the  buskin  and  the  sock. 

d  33 


ON    BAILE'S   STRAND:    A   PLAY. 

THE    PERSONS   OF   THE    PLAY. 

CUCHULLAIN,  the  King  of  Muirthemne. 

CONCOBAR,  the  High  King  of  Ullad. 

DAIRE,  a  King. 

FINTAIN,  a  blind  man. 

BARACH,  a  fool. 

A  Young  Man. 

Young  Kings  and  Old  Kings. 

SCENE :  A  great  hall  by  the  sea  close  to  Dun- 
dalgan.  There  are  two  great  chairs  on  either 
side  of  the  hall,  each  raised  a  little  from  the 
ground,  and  on  the  back  of  the  one  chair  is 
carved  and  painted  a  woman  with  a  fish's  tail, 
and  on  the  back  of  the  other  a  hound.  There 
are  smaller  chairs  and  benches  raised  in  tiers 
round  the  walls.  There  is  a  great  ale  vat  at  one 
side  near  a  small  door,  &  a  large  door  at  the 
back  through  which  one  can  see  the  sea.  Barach, 
a  tall  thin  man  with  long  ragged  hair,  dressed  in 
skins,  comes  in  at  the  side  door.  He  is  leading 
Fintain,  a  fat  blind  man,  who  is  somewhat  older. 

34 


BARACH. 
I  will  shut  the  door,  for  this  wind  out  of  the  sea 
gets  into  my  bones,  and  if  I   leave  but  an  inch 
for  the  wind  there  is  one  like  a  flake  of  sea-frost 
that  might  come  into  the  house. 

FINTAIN. 
What  is  his  name,  fool  ? 

BARACH. 
It's  a  woman  from  among  the  Riders  of  the 
Sidhe.  It's  Boann  herself  from  the  river.  She 
has  left  the  Dagda's  bed,  and  gone  through  the 
salt  of  the  sea  &  up  here  to  the  strand  of  Baile, 
and  all  for  love  of  me.  Let  her  keep  her  hus- 
band's bed,  for  she'll  have  none  of  me.  No- 
body knows  how  lecherous  these  goddesses  are. 
I  see  her  in  every  kind  of  shape  but  oftener 
than  not  she's  in  the  wind  and  cries  f  give  a  kiss 
and  put  your  arms  about  me.'  But  no,  she'll 
have  no  more  of  me.  Yesterday  when  I  put 
out  my  lips  to  kiss  her,  there  was  nothing  there 
but    the    wind.      She's    bad,    Fintain.      O,    she's 

35 


bad.      I  had  better  shut  the  big  door  too.     (He 

is  going  towards  the  big  door  but  turns  hearing 

Fintain's  voice.) 

FINTAIN. 

(Who   has   been    feeling   about   with    his    stick.) 
What's  this  and  this  ? 

BARACH. 
They  are  chairs. 

FINTAIN. 
And  this  ? 

BARACH. 

Why,  that's  a  bench. 

FINTAIN. 
And  this  ? 

BARACH. 
A  big  chair. 

FINTAIN. 

(Feeling  the  back  of  the  chair.)     There  is  a  sea- 
woman  carved  upon  it. 

BARACH. 

And  there  is  another  big  chair  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hall. 

36 


FINTAIN. 

Lead  me  to  it.  (He  mutters  while  the  fool  is 
leading  him.)  That  is  what  the  High  King 
Concobar  has  on  his  shield.  The  High  King 
will  be  coming.  They  have  brought  out  his 
chair.  (He  begins  feeling  the  back  of  the  other 
chair.)  And  there  is  a  dog's  head  on  this.  They 
have  brought  out  our  master's  chair.  Now  I 
know  what  the  horse-boys  were  talking  about. 
We  must  not  stay  here.  The  Kings  are  going 
to  meet  here.  Now  that  Concobar  and  our 
master,  that  is  his  chief  man,  have  put  down  all 
the  enemies  of  Ullad,  they  are  going  to  build 
up  Emain  again.  They  are  going  to  talk  over 
their  plans  for  building  it.  Were  you  ever  in 
Concobar's  town  before  it  was  burnt  ?  O,  he  is 
a  great  King,  for  though  Emain  was  burnt  down, 
every  war  had  made  him  richer.  He  has  gold 
and  silver  dishes,  and  chessboards  and  candle- 
sticks made  of  precious  stones.  Fool,  have 
they  taken  the  top  from  the  ale  vat  ? 


37 


BARACH. 
They  have. 

FINTAIN. 

Then  bring  me  a  horn  of  ale  quickly,  for  the 
Kings  will  be  here  in  a  minute.  Now  I  can  listen. 
Tell  me  what  you  saw  this  morning  ? 

BARACH. 
About  the  young  man  and  the  fighting? 

FINTAIN. 
Yes. 

BARACH. 

And  after  that  we  can  go  and  eat  the  fowl,  for  I 

am  hungry. 

FINTAIN. 

Time  enough,  time  enough.  You're  in  as  great 
a  hurry  as  when  you  brought  me  to  Aine's  Seat, 
where  the  mad  dogs  gather  when  the  moon's  at 
the  full.     Go  on  with  your  story. 

BARACH. 

I  was  creeping  under  a  ditch,  with  the  fowl  in 
my  leather  bag,  keeping  to  the  shore  where  the 

38 


farmer  could  not  see  me,  when  I  came  upon  a 
ship  drawn  up  upon  the  sands,  a  great  red  ship 
with  a  woman's  head  upon  it. 

FINTAIN. 

A  ship  out  of  Aoife's  country.  They  have  all  a 
woman's  head  on  the  bow. 

BARACH. 

There  was  a  young  man  with  a  pale  face  and  red 
hair  standing  beside  it.  Some  of  our  people  came 
up  whose  turn  it  was  to  guard  the  shore.  I  heard 
them  ask  the  young  man  his  name.  He  said  he 
was  under  bonds  not  to  tell  it.  Then  words  came 
between  them,  and  they  fought,  &  the  young 
man  killed  half  of  them,  and  the  others  ran  away. 

FINTAIN. 
It  matters  nothing  to  us,  but  he  has  come  at  last. 

BARACH. 
Who  has  come  ? 

39 


FINTAIN. 

I  know  who  that  young  man  is.  There  is  not 
another  like  him  in  the  world.  I  saw  him  when 
I  had  my  eyesight. 

BARACH. 

You  saw  him  ? 

FINTAIN. 

I  used  to  be  in  Aoife's  country  when  I  had  my 
eyesight. 

BARACH. 
That  was  before  you  went  on  shipboard  and  were 
blinded  for  putting  a  curse  on  the  wind  ? 

FINTAIN. 
Queen  Aoife  had  a  son  that  was  red  haired  and 
pale  faced  like  herself,  and  everyone  said  that  he 
would  kill  Cuchullain  some  day,  but  I  would  not 
have  that  spoken  of. 

BARACH. 
Nobody  could  do  that.     Who  was  his  father  ? 

40 


FINTAIN. 
Nobody  but  Aoife  knew  that,  not  even  he  him- 
self. 

BARACH. 

Not  even  he  himself!     Was  Aoife  a  goddess  & 

lecherous  ? 

FINTAIN. 

I  overheard  her  telling  that  she  never  had  but 
one  lover,  and  that  he  was  the  only  man  who 
overcame  her  in  battle.  There  were  some  who 
thought  him  one  of  the  Riders  of  the  Sidhe, 
because  the  child  was  great  of  limb  and  strong 
beyond  others.  The  child  was  begotten  over 
the  mountains ;  but  come  nearer  and  I  will  tell 
you  something. 

BARACH. 

You  have  thought  something  ? 

FINTAIN. 
When  I  hear  the  young  girls  talking  about  the 
colour    of  Cuchullain's    eyes,  &  how  they  have 
seven   colours,   I   have   thought  about   it.     That 

4i 


young  man  has  Aoife's  face  and  hair,  but  he  has 

Cuchullain's  eyes. 

BARACH. 

How  can  he  have  Cuchullain's  eyes  ? 

FINTAIN. 
He  is  Cuchullain's  son. 

BARACH. 
And  his  mother  has  sent  him  hither  to  fight  his 

father. 

FINTAIN. 

It  is  all  quite  plain.     Cuchullain  went  into  Aoife's 

country  when  he  was  a  young  man  that  he  might 

learn  skill  in  arms,  and  there  he  became  Aoife's 

lover. 

BARACH. 

And  now  she  hates  him  because  he  went  away, 

and  has  sent  the  son  to  kill  the  father.     I  knew 

she  was  a  goddess. 

FINTAIN. 

And  she  never  told  him  who  his  father  was,  that 
he  might  do  it.    I  have  thought  it  all  out,  fool.     I 

42 


know  a  great  many  things  because  I  listen  when 
nobody  is  noticing  and  I  keep  my  wits  awake. 
What  ails  you  now  ? 

BARACH. 
I  have  remembered  that  I  am  hungry. 

FINTAIN. 
Well,  forget  it  again,  and  I  will  tell  you  about 
Aoife's  country.  It  is  full  of  wonders.  There 
are  a  great  many  Queens  there  who  can  change 
themselves  into  wolves  and  into  swine  and  into 
white  hares,  and  when  they  are  in  their  own 
shapes  they  are  stronger  than  almost  any  man  ; 
and  there  are  young  men  there  who  have  cat's 
eyes  and  if  a  bird  chirrup  or  a  mouse  squeak 
they  cannot  keep  them  shut  even  though  it  is 
bedtime  and  they  sleepy  ;  and  listen,  for  this  is 
a  great  wonder,  a  very  great  wonder,  there  is  a 
long  narrow  bridge,  and  when  anybody  goes  to 
cross  it,  that  the  Queens  do  not  like,  it  flies  up 
as  this  bench  would  if  you  were  to  sit  on  the  end 
of  it.     Everybody  who  goes  there  to  learn  skill 

43 


in  arms  has  to  cross  it.  It  was  in  that  country 
too  that  Cuchullain  got  his  spear  made  out  of 
dragon  bones.  There  were  two  dragons  fighting 
in  the  foam  of  the  sea,  &  their  grandam  was  the 
moon,  and  six  Queens  came  along  the  shore. 

BARACH. 
I  won't  listen  to  your  story. 

FINTAIN. 
It  is  a  very  wonderful  story.     Wait  till  you  hear 
what  the  six  Queens  did.     Their  right  hands  were 

all  made  of  silver. 

BARACH. 

No,  I  will  have  my  dinner  first.  You  have  eaten 
the  fowl  I  left  in  front  of  the  fire.  The  last  time 
you  sent  me  to  steal  something  you  made  me  for- 
get all  about  it  till  you  had  eaten  it  up. 

FINTAIN. 
No,  there  is  plenty  for  us  both. 

BARACH. 
Come  with  me  where  it  is. 

44 


FINTAIN. 
(Who  is  being  led  towards  the  door  at  the  back 
by  Barach.)     O,  it  is  all  right,  it  is  in  a  safe  place. 

BARACH. 
It  is  a  fine  fowl.     It  was  the  biggest  in  the  yard. 

FINTAIN. 

It  had  a  good  smell,  but  I  hope  that  the  wild 
dogs  have  not  smelt  it.  (Voices  are  heard  out- 
side the  door  at  the  side.)  Here  is  our  master. 
Let  us  stay  and  talk  with  him.  Perhaps  Cuchul- 
lain  will  give  you  a  new  cap  with  a  feather.  He 
told  me  that  he  would  give  you  a  new  cap  with  a 
feather,  a  feather  with  an  eye  that  looks  at  you, 
a  peacock's  feather. 

BARACH. 

No,  no.  (He  begins  pulling  Fintain  towards  the 
door.) 

FINTAIN. 

If  you  do  not  get  it  now,  you  may  never  get  it, 
for  the  young  man  may  kill  him. 

45 


BARACH. 
No,  no,  I  am  hungry.     What  a  head  you  have, 
blind  man.     Who  but  you  would  have  remem- 
bered that  the  hen-wife  slept  for  a  little  at  noon 

every  day. 

FINTAIN. 

(Who  is  being  led  along  very  slowly  and  unwill- 
ingly.) Yes,  I  have  a  good  head.  The  fowl 
should  be  done  just  right,  but  one  never  knows 
when  a  wild  dog  may  come  out  of  the  woods. 
(They  go  out  through  the  big  door  at  the  back. 
As  they  go  out  Cuchullain  &  certain  young 
Kings  come  in  at  the  side  door.  Cuchullain 
though  still  young  is  a  good  deal  older  than 
the  others.  They  are  all  very  gaily  dressed, 
and  have  their  hair  fastened  with  balls  of  gold. 
The  young  men  crowd  about  Cuchullain  with 
wondering  attention.) 

FIRST   YOUNG   KING. 
You  have  hurled  that  stone  beyond  our  utmost 

mark 
Time  after  time,  but  yet  you  are  not  weary. 

46 


SECOND    YOUNG   KING. 
He  has  slept  on  the  bare  ground  of  FuacTs  Hill 
This  week  past,  waiting  for  the  bulls  and  the  deer. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
Well,  why  should  I  be  weary  ? 

FIRST   YOUNG    KING. 

It  is  certain 

His  father  was  the  god  who  wheels  the  sun, 

And  not  king  Sualtam. 

THIRD    YOUNG   KING. 
(To  a  young  King  who  is  beside  him.)     He  came 

in  the  dawn, 
And  folded  Dectara  in  a  sudden  fire. 

FOURTH    YOUNG    KING. 

And  yet  the  mother's  half  might  well  grow  weary, 
And  it  new  come  from  labours  over  sea. 

THIRD   YOUNG   KING. 
He  has  been  on  islands  walled  about  with  silver, 
And  fought  with  giants. 
(They  gather  about  the  ale  vat  and  begin  to  drink.) 

47 


CUCHULLAIN. 

Who  was  it  that  went  out  ? 

THIRD    YOUNG    KING. 
As  we  came  in  ? 

CUCHULLAIN. 

Yes. 

THIRD    YOUNG   KING. 

Barach  and  blind  Fintain. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
They  always  flock  together ;  the  blind  man 
Has  need  of  the  fool's  eyesight  and  strong  body, 
While  the  poor  fool  has  need  of  the  other's  wit, 
And  night  and  day  is  up  to  his  ears  in  mischief 
That  the  blind  man  imagines.     There's  no  hen- 
yard 
But  clucks  and  cackles  when  he  passes  by 
As  if  he'd  been  a  fox.      If  I'd  that  ball 
That's  in  your  hair  and  the  big  stone  again, 
I'd  keep  them  tossing,  though  the  one  is  heavy 
And  the  other  light  in  the  hand.      A  trick  I  learnt 
When  I  was  learning  arms  in  Aoife's  country. 

48 


FIRST    YOUNG    KING. 
What  kind  of  woman  was  that  Aoife  ? 

CUCHULLAIN. 

Comely. 
FIRST    YOUNG    KING. 

But  I  have  heard  that  she  was  never  married, 
And  yet  that's  natural,  for  I  have  never  known 
A  fighting  woman,  but  made  her  favours  cheap, 
Or  mocked  at  love  till  she  grew  sandy  dry. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

What  manner  of  woman  do  you  like  the  best? 
A  gentle  or  a  fierce. 

FIRST    YOUNG    KING. 

A  gentle  surely. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
I  think  that  a  fierce  woman's  better,  a  woman 
That  breaks  away   when   you   have  thought  her 

won, 
For  I'd  be  fed  and  hungry  at  one  time. 
e  49 


I  think  that  all  deep  passion  is  but  a  kiss 
In  the  mid  battle,  and  a  difficult  peace 
'Twixt  oil  and  water,  candles  and  dark  night, 
Hill-side  and  hollow,  the  hot-footed  sun, 
And  the  cold  sliding  slippery-footed  moon, 
A  brief  forgiveness  between  opposites 
That  have  been  hatreds  for  three  times  the  age 
Of  his   long   'stablished  ground.      Here's   Con- 

cobar; 
So  I'll  be  done,  but  keep  beside  me  still, 
For  while  he  talks  of  hammered  bronze  and  asks 
What  wood  is  best  for  building,  we  can  talk 
Of  a  fierce  woman. 

(Concobar,  a  man  much  older  than  Cuchullain, 
has  come  in  through  the  great  door  at  the  back. 
He  has  many  Kings  about  him.  One  of  these 
Kings,  Daire,  a  stout  old  man,  is  somewhat 
drunk.) 

CONCOBAR. 
(To  one  of  those  about  him.)     Has  the  ship  gone 
yet  ?     We   have  need  of   more   bronze  workers 
and  that  ship  I  sent  to  Africa  for  gold  is  late. 

50 


CUCHULLAIN. 
I  knew  their  talk. 

CONCOBAR. 

(Seeing  Cuchullain.)     You  are  before  us,  King. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

So  much  the  better,  for  I  welcome  you 
Into  my  Muirthemne. 

CONCOBAR. 

But  who  are  these  ? 
The  odour  from  their  garments  when  they  stir 
Is  like  a  wind  out  of  an  apple  garden 

CUCHULLAIN. 
My  swordsmen  and  harp  players  and  fine  dancers, 
My  bosom  friends. 

CONCOBAR. 

I  should  have  thought,  Cuchullain, 
My  graver  company  would  better  match 
Your    greatness    and    your    years ;    but    I    waste 

breath 
In  harping  on  that  tale. 

51 


CUCHULLAIN. 

You  do,  great  King. 
Because  their  youth  is  the  kind  wandering  wave 
That  carries  me  about  the  world ;  and  if  it  sank, 
My  sword  would  lose  its  lightness. 

CONCOBAR. 

Yet,  Cuchullain, 

Emain  should  be  the  foremost  town  of  the  world. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
It  is  the  foremost  town. 

CONCOBAR. 

No,  no,  it's  not. 
Nothing  but  men  can  make  towns  great,  and  he, 
The  one  over-topping  man  that's  in  the  world, 
Keeps  far  away. 

DAIRE. 

He  will  not  hear  you,  King, 
And'we  old  men  had  best  keep  company 
With  one  another.     I'll  fill  the  horn  for  you. 

52 


CONCOBAR. 

I  will  not   drink,  old  fool.     You  have  drunk  a 

horn 
At  every  door  we  came  to. 

DAIRE. 

You'd  better  drink, 
For  old  men  light  upon  their  youth  again 
In  the  brown  ale.     When  I  have  drunk  enough, 
I  am  like  Cuchullain  as  one  pea  another, 
And  live  like  a  bird's  flight  from  tree  to  tree. 

CONCOBAR. 

We'll  to  our  chairs  for  we  have  much  to  talk  of, 
And  we  have  Ullad  and  Muirthemne,  and  here 
Is  Conall  Muirthemne  in  the  nick  of  time. 
(He  goes  to  the  back  of  stage  to  welcome  a  com- 
pany of  Kings  who  come  in  through  the  great 
door.     The  other  Kings  gradually  get  into  their 
places.     Cuchullain   sits  in  his  great   chair  with 
certain  of  the  young  men  standing  around  him. 
Others  of  the  young  men,  however,  remain  with 
Daire  at  the  ale  vat.     Daire  holds  out  the  horn 

53 


of  ale  to  one  or  two  of  the  older  Kings  as  they 
pass  him  going  to  their  places.  They  pass  him 
by,  most  of  them  silently  refusing.) 

DAIRE. 
Will  you  not  drink  ? 

AN    OLD    KING. 

Not  till  the  council's  over. 

A   YOUNG    KING. 
But  I'll  drink,  Daire. 

ANOTHER   YOUNG   KING. 

Fill  me  a  horn  too,  Daire. 

ANOTHER   YOUNG    KING. 
If  I'd  drunk  half  that  you  have  drunk  to-day, 
I'd  be  upon  all  fours. 

DAIRE. 

That  would  be  natural 
When  Mother  Earth  had  given  you  this   good 

milk 
From  her  great  breasts. 

54 


CUCHULLAIN. 

(To  one  of  the  young  Kings  beside  him) 

One  is  content  awhile 
With  a  soft  warm  woman  who  folds  up  our  lives 
In  silky  network.     Then,  one  knows  not  why, 
But  one's  away  after  a  flinty  heart. 

THE   YOUNG   KING. 
How  long  can  the  net  keep  us  ? 

CUCHULLAIN. 

All  our  lives 
If  there  are  children,  and  a  dozen  moons 
If  there  are  none,  because  a  growing  child 
Has  so  much  need  of  watching  it  can  make 
A  passion  that's  as  changeable  as  the  sea 
Change  till  it  holds  the  wide  earth  to  its  heart. 
At  least  I  have  heard  a  father  say  it,  but  I 
Being  childless  do  not  know  it.    Come  nearer  yet ; 
Though  he  is  ringing  that  old  silver  rod 
We'll   have    our    own   talk   out.       They   cannot 
hear  us. 

55 


(Concobar  who  is  now  seated  in  his  great  chair, 
opposite  Cuchullain,  beats  upon  the  pillar  of  the 
house  that  is  nearest  to  him  with  a  rod  of  silver, 
till  the  Kings  have  become  silent.  Cuchullain 
alone  continues  to  talk  in  a  low  voice  to  those 
about  him,  but  not  so  loud  as  to  disturb  the 
silence.     Concobar  rises  and  speaks  standing.) 

CONCOBAR. 

I  have  called    you  hither,  Kings  of  Ullad,  and 

Kings 
Of  Muirthemne  and  Connall  Muirthemne, 
And  tributary  Kings,  for  now  there  is  peace  — 
It's  time  to  build  up  Emain  that  was  burned 
At  the  outsetting  of  these  wars  ;  for  we, 
Being  the  foremost  men,  should  have  high  chairs 
And  be  much  stared  at  and  wondered  at,   and 

speak 
Out  of  more  laughing  overflowing  hearts 
Than  common  men.      It  is  the  art  of  kings 
To  make  what's  noble  nobler  in  men's  eyes 
By  wide  uplifted  roofs,  where  beaten  gold, 


That's  ruddy  with  desire,  marries  pale  silver 
Among  the  shadowing  beams  ;  and  many  a  time 
I  would  have  called  you  hither  to  this  work, 
But  always,  when  I'd  all  but  summoned  you, 
Some  war  or  some  rebellion  would  break  out. 

DAIRE. 

Where's   Maine   Morgor  and  old  Usnach's  chil- 
dren, 
And  that  high-headed  even-walking  Queen, 
And  many  near  as  great  that  got  their  death 
Because  you  hated  peace.      1  can  remember 
The  people  crying  out  when  Deirdre  passed 
And  Maine  Morgor  had  a  cold  grey  eye. 
Well,  well,  I'll  throw  this  heel-tap  on  the  ground, 
For  it  may  be  they  are  thirsty. 

A  KING. 

Be  silent,  fool. 

ANOTHER   KING. 
Be  silent,  Daire. 

57 


CONCOBAR. 

Let  him  speak  his  mind. 
I  have  no  need  to  be  afraid  of  ghosts, 
For  I  have  made  but  necessary  wars. 
I  warred  to  strengthen  Emain,  or  because 
When  wars  are  out  they  marry  and  beget 
And  have  their  generations  like  mankind 
And  there's  no  help  for  it;  but  I'm  well  content 
That  they  have  ended  and  left  the  town  so  great, 
That  its  mere  name  shall  be  in  times  to  come 
Like  a  great  ale  vat  where  the  men  of  the  world 
Shall  drink  no  common  ale  but  the  hard  will, 
The  unquenchable  hope,  the  friendliness  of  the 

sword. 
(He  takes  thin  boards  on  which  plans  have  been 
carved  by  those  about  him.) 

Give  me  the  building  plans,  and  have  you  written 
That  we  —  Cuchullain  is  looking  in  his  shield; 
It  may  be  the  pale  riders  of  the  wind 
Throw  pictures  on  it,  or  that  Mananan, 
His  father's  friend  and  sometime  fosterer, 
Foreknower  of  all  things,  has  cast  a  vision, 

58 


c 


m 

Out  of  the  cold  dark  of  the  rich  sea. 
Foretelling  Emain's  greatness. 


CUCHULLAIN. 

No,  great  King, 

I  looked  on  this  out  of  mere  idleness, 

Imagining  a  woman  that  I  loved. 

(The  sound  of  a  trumpet  without.) 

CONCOBAR. 
Open  the  door,  for  that  is  a  herald's  trumpet. 
(The    great   door   at  the  back  is  flung  open ;    a 
young  man  who  is  fully  armed  and  carries  a  shield 
with  a  woman's  head  painted  on  it,  stands  upon 
the    threshold.       Behind     him    are    trumpeters. 
He  walks  into  the  centre  of  the  hall,  the  trum- 
peting ceases.) 
What  is  your  message  ? 

YOUNG    MAN. 

I  am  of  Aoife's  army. 

FIRST   KING. 
Queen  Aoife  and  her  army  have  fallen  upon  us. 

59 


SECOND    KING. 
Out  swords  !     Out  swords  ! 

THIRD   KING. 

They  are  about  the  house. 

FOURTH    KING. 
Rush  out !     Rush  out !     Before  they  have  fired 
the  thatch. 

YOUNG    MAN. 

Aoife  is  far  away.      I  am  alone. 

I  have  come  alone  in  the  midst  of  you 

To  weigh  this  sword  against  Cuchullain's  sword. 

(There  is  a  murmur  amongst  the  Kings.) 

CONCOBAR. 

And  are  you  noble  ?  for  if  of  common  seed 
You  cannot  weigh  your  sword  against  his  sword 
But  in  mixed  battle. 

YOUNG    MAN. 

I  am  under  bonds 
To  tell  my  name  to  no  man,  but  it's  noble. 

60 


CONCOBAR. 
But  I  would  know  your  name  and  not  your  bonds. 
You  cannot  speak  in  the  Assembly  House 
If  you  are  not  noble. 

A  KING. 

Answer  the  High  King. 

YOUNG    MAN. 

(Drawing  his  sword.)     I  will  give  no  other  proof 

than  the  hawk  gives 
That  it's  no  sparrow.     (He  is  silent  a  moment 
then  speaks  to  all.) 

Yet  look  upon  me,  Kings  ; 
I  too  am  of  that  ancient  seed  and  carry 
The  signs  about  this  body  and  in  these  bones. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

To  have  shown  the  hawk's  grey  feather  is  enough 
And  you  speak  highly  too. 

(Cuchullain  comes  down  from  his  great  chair. 
He  remains  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  chair. 
The  young  Kings  gather  about  him  and  begin 
to  arm  him.) 

61 


Give  me  that  helmet ! 
I'd  thought  they  had  grown  weary  sending  cham- 
pions. 
That  coat  will  do.     I'd  half  forgotten,  boy, 
How  all  those  great  kings  came  into  the  mouse- 
trap 
That    had    been     baited     with    Maeve's     pretty 

daughter. 
How  Findabair,  that  blue-eyed  Findabair  — 
But  the  tale  is  worthy  of  a  winter's  night. 
That   buckle  should  be  tighter.     Give  me  your 

shield. 
There  is  good  level  ground  at  Baile's  Yew-tree 
Some  dozen  yards  from  here,  and  it's  but  truth 
That  I  am  sad  to-day  and  this  fight  welcome. 
(He  looks  hard  at  the  Young  Man,  and  then  steps 
down  on  to  the  floor    of  the  Assembly  House. 
He  grasps  the  Young  Man  by  the  shoulder.) 
Hither  into  the  light.     (Turning  to   one    of  the 
young  Kings) 

That's  the  very  tint 
Of  her  that  I  was  speaking  of  but  now : 

62 


Not  a  pin's  difference.     (To  the  Young  Man) 

You  are  from  the  North 
Where  there  are  many  that  have  that  tint  of  hair 
Red  brown,  the  light  red  brown.      Come  nearer, 

boy  ! 
For  I  would  have  another  look  at  you. 
There's  more  likeness,  a  pale,  a  stone  pale  cheek. 
What  brought  you,  boy  ?      Have  you  no  fear  of 

death  ? 

YOUNG    MAN. 

Whether  I  live  or  die  is  in  the  Gods'  hands. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

That  is  all  words,  all  words,  a  young  man's  talk  ; 
I    am     their    plough,    their     harrow,    their    very 

strength, 
For  he  that's  in  the  sun  begot  this  body 
Upon  a  mortal  woman,  and  I  have  heard  tell 
It  seemed  as  if  he  had  outrun  the  moon, 
That  he  must  always  follow  through  waste  heaven, 
He  loved  so  happily.     He'll  be  but  slow 
To  break  a  tree  that  was  so  sweetly  planted. 

63 


Let's  see  that  arm  ;   I'll  see  it  if  I  like. 

That  arm  had  a  good  father  and  a  good  mother 

But  it  is  not  like  this. 

YOUNG    MAN. 

You  are  mocking  me. 
You  think  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  fought, 
But  I'll  not  wrangle  but  with  this  talkative  knife. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

Put  up  your  sword,  I  am  not  mocking  you. 
I'd  have  you  for  my  friend,  but  if  it's  not 
Because  you  have  a  hot  heart  and  a  cold  eye 
I     cannot    tell    the    reason.       You've    got    her 

fierceness, 
And  nobody  is  as  fierce  as  those  pale  women. 
(To  the  young  Kings) 
We'll  keep  him  here  in  Muirthemne  awhile. 

A    YOUNG   KING. 

You  are  the  leader  of  our  pack  and  therefore 
May  cry  what  you  will. 

64 


CUCHULLAIN. 

You'll  stop  with  us 
And  we  will  hunt  the  deer  and  the  wild  bulls 
And,  when  we  have  grown  weary,  light  our  fires 
In  sandy  places  where  the  wool-white  foam 
Is  murmuring  and  breaking,  and  it  may  be 
That  long-haired  women  will   come    out  of  the 

dunes 
To  dance    in    the    yellow   fire-light.     You   hang 

your  head, 
Young  man,  as  if  it  was  not  a  good  life ; 
And  yet  what's  better  than  to  hurl  the  spear, 
And  hear  the  long-remembering  harp,  and  dance ; 
Friendship    grows    quicker    in    the    murmuring 

dark ; 
But  I  can  see  there's  no  more  need  for  words 
And  that  you'll  be  my  friend  now. 

FIRST   OLD    KING. 

Concobar, 

Forbid  their  friendship,  for  it  will  get  twisted 

To  a  reproach  against  us. 

f  6$ 


CONCOBAR. 

Until  now 

I'd  never  need  to  cry  Cuchullain  on 

And  would  not  now. 

FIRST    OLD    KING. 
They'll  say  his  manhood's  quenched. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

I'll  give  you  gifts,  but  I'll  have  something  too, 
An  arm-ring  or  the  like,  and  if  you  will 
We'll  fight  it  out  when  you  are  older,  boy. 

AN   OLD   KING. 
Aoife  will  make  some  story  out  of  this. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

Well,  well,  what  matter,  I'll  have  that  arm-ring, 

boy. 

YOUNG   MAN. 

There  is  no  man  I'd  sooner  have  my  friend 
Than  you  whose  name  has  gone  about  the  world 
As  if  it  had  been  the  wind,  but  Aoife'd  say 
I  had  turned  coward. 

66 


CUCHULLAIN. 

I'll  give  you  gifts 
That  Aoife'll  know  and  all  her  people  know 
To  have  been  my  gifts.      Mananan  son  of  the  sea 
Gave  me  this  heavy  purple  cloak.      Nine  Queens 
Of  the  Land-under-Wave  had  woven  it 
Out  of  the  fleeces  of  the  sea.     O  !  tell  her 
I  was  afraid,  or  tell  her  what  you  will. 
No  !  tell  her  that  I  heard  a  raven  croak 
On  the  north  side  of  the  house  and  was  afraid. 

AN    OLD    KING. 

Some  witch  of  the  air  has  troubled  Cuchullain's 
mind. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

No  witchcraft,  his  head  is  like  a  woman's  head 
I  had  a  fancy  for. 

SECOND    OLD   KING. 

A  witch  of  the  air 
Can  make  a  leaf  confound  us  with  memories. 
They  have  gone  to  school  to  learn  the  trick  of  it. 

67 


CUCHULLAIN. 
But  there's  no  trick  in  this.     That  arm-ring,  boy. 

THIRD    OLD    KING. 
He  shall  not  go  unfought,  I'll  fight  with  him. 

FOURTH    OLD    KING. 

No  !   I  will  fight  with  him. 

FIRST    OLD    KING. 

I  claim  the  fight, 
For  when  we  sent  an  army  to  her  land  — 

SECOND    OLD    KING. 
I  claim  the  fight,  for  one  of  Aoife's  galleys 
Stole  my  great  cauldron  and  a  herd  of  pigs. 

THIRD    OLD    KING. 
No,  no,  I  claim  it,  for  at  Lammas'  time  — 

CUCHULLAIN. 
Back  !   Back  !  Put  up  your  swords !    Put  up  your 

swords ! 
There's  none  alive  that  shall  accept  a  challenge 
I  have  refused.      Laegaire,  put  up  your  sword. 

68 


YOUNG    MAN. 
No,  let  them  come,  let  any  three  together. 
If  they've  a  mind  to,  I'll  try  it  out  with  four. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
That's  spoken  as  I'd  spoken  it  at  your  age, 
But  you  are  in  my  house.     Whatever  man 
Would  fight  with  you  shall  fight  it  out  with  me. 
They're  dumb.     They're  dumb.      How  many  of 

you  would  meet  (drawing  his  sword) 
This  mutterer,  this  old  whistler,  this  sand-piper, 
This  edge  that's  greyer  than  the  tide,  this  mouse 
That's  gnawing  at  the  timbers  of  the  world, 
This,  this  —  Boy,  I  would  meet  them  all  in  arms 
If  I'd  a  son  like  you.     He  would  avenge  me 
When  I  have  withstood  for  the  last  time  the  men 
Whose  fathers,  brothers,  sons,  and  friends  I  have 

killed 
Upholding  Ullad ;  when  the  four  provinces 
Have  gathered  with  the  ravens  over  them. 
But  I'd  need  no  avenger.     You  and  I 
Would  scatter  them  like  water  from  a  dish. 

69 


YOUNG    MAN. 

We'll  stand  by  one  another  from  this  out. 
Here  is  the  ring. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

No,  turn  and  turn  about 
But  my  turn  is  first,  because  I  am  the  older. 
Cliodna  embroidered  these  bird  wings,  but  Fand 
Made  all  these  little  golden  eyes  with  the  hairs 
That  she  had  stolen  out  of  Aengus'  beard, 
And  therefore  none  that  has  this  cloak  about  him 
Is  crossed  in  love.     The  heavy  inlaid  brooch 
That  Buan  hammered  has  a  merit  too. 
(He  begins  spreading  the  cloak  out  on  a  bench, 
showing  it  to  the  Young  Man.     Suddenly  Con- 
cobar  beats  with  his  silver  rod  on  a  pillar  beside 
his  chair.     All  turn  towards  him.) 

CONCOBAR. 

(In  a  loud  voice.)     No  more  of  that,  I  will  not 

have  this  friendship. 
Cuchullain  is  my  man  and  I  forbid  it ; 
He  shall  not  go  unfought  for  I  myself — 

70 


CUCHULLAIN. 

(Seizing  Concobar.)   You  shall  not  stir,  High  King, 
I'll  hold  you  there. 

CONCOBAR. 

Witchcraft  has  maddened  you. 

THE   KINGS. 
(Shouting.)     Yes,  witchcraft,  witchcraft. 

A   KING. 
You  saw  another's  head  upon  his  shoulders 
All  of  a  sudden,  a  woman's  head,  Cuchullain, 
Then  raised  your  hand  against  the  King  of  Ullad. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

(Letting  Concobar  go,  and  looking  wildly  about 

him.) 

Yes,  yes,  all  of  a  sudden,  all  of  a  sudden. 

DAIRE. 

Why,  there's  no  witchcraft  in  it,  I  myself 

Have  made  a  hundred  of  these  sudden  friendships 

And  fought  it  out  next  day.     But  that  was  folly, 

7i 


For  now  that  I  am  old  I  know  it  is  best 
To  live  in  comfort. 

A   KING. 
Pull  the  fool  away. 

DAIRE. 
I'll  throw  a  heel-tap  to  the  one  that  dies. 

CONCOBAR. 

Some  witch  is  floating  in  the  air  above  us. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

Yes,  witchcraft,  witchcraft  and  the  power  of  witch- 
craft.    (To  the  Young  Man) 
Why  did  you  do  it  ?  was  it  Calatin's  daughters  P 
Out,  out,  I  say,  for  now  it's  sword  on  sword. 

YOUNG   MAN. 
But,  but,  I  did  not. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

Out,  I  say,  out,  out ! 
Sword  upon  sword.    (He  goes  towards  the  door 
at  back,  followed  by  Young  Man.     He  turns  on 

72 


the  threshold  and  cries  out,  looking  at  the  Young 
Man.)  That  hair  my  hands  were  drowned  in  ! 
(He  goes  out,  followed  by  Young  Man.  The 
other  Kings  begin  to  follow  them  out.) 

A   KING. 
I  saw  him  fight  with  Ferdiad. 

SECOND    KING. 

We'll  be  too  late 
They're  such  a  long  time  getting  through  the  door. 

THIRD    KING. 
Run  quicker,  quicker. 

DAIRE. 

I  was  at  the  Smith's 
When  he  that  was  the  boy  Setanta  then  — 
(Sound  of  fighting  outside.) 

THIRD   KING. 

He  will  have  killed  him.     They  have  begun  the 

fight! 
(They  all  go  out,  leaving  the   house  silent   and 

73 


empty.     There  is  a  pause  during  which  one  hears 

the  clashing  of  the  swords.      Barach  and  Fintain 

come  in   from    side    door.       Barach    is    dragging 

Fintain.) 

BARACH. 

You  have  eaten  it,  you  have  eaten  it,  you  have 
left  me  nothing  but  the  bones. 

FINTAIN. 

O,  that  I  should  have  to  endure  such  a  plague. 

O,   I   ache  all   over.      O,  I   am   pulled  in  pieces. 

This  is  the  way  you  pay  me  all  the  good  I  have 

done  you  ! 

BARACH. 

You  have  eaten  it,  you  have  told  me  lies  about  a 
wild  dog.  Nobody  has  seen  a  wild  dog  about 
the  place  this  twelve  month.  Lie  there  till  the 
Kings  come.  O,  I  will  tell  Concobar  and  Cuchul- 
lain  and  all  the  Kings  about  you  ! 

FINTAIN. 
What  would  have  happened  to  you  but  for  me, 
and  you  without  your  wits.      If  I   did  not  take 

.      74 


care  of  you  what  would  you  do  for  food  and 
warmth ! 

BARACH. 

You  take  care  of  me  ?  You  stay  safe  and  send 
me  into  every  kind  of  danger.  You  sent  me 
down  the  cliff  for  gull's  eggs  while  you  warmed 
your  blind  eyes  in  the  sun.  And  then  you  ate 
all  that  were  good  for  food.  You  left  me  the 
eggs  that  were  neither  egg  nor  bird.  (The  blind 
man  tries  to  rise.  Barach  makes  him  lie  down 
again.) 

Keep  quiet  now  till  I  shut  the  door.  There  is 
some  noise  outside.  There  are  swords  crossing; 
a  high  vexing  noise  so  that  I  can't  be  listening  to 
myself.  (He  goes  to  the  big  door  at  the  back 
and  shuts  it.)  Why  can't  they  be  quiet,  why 
can't  they  be  quiet.  Ah,  you  would  get  away, 
would  you  ?  (He  follows  the  blind  man  who  has 
been  crawling  along  the  wall  and  makes  him  lie 
down  close  to  the  King's  chair.)  Lie  there,  lie 
there.  No,  you  won't  get  away.  Lie  there  till 
the  Kings  come,  I'll  tell  them  all  about  you.     I 

75 


shall  tell  it  all.  How  you  sit  warming  yourself, 
when  you  have  made  me  light  a  fire  of  sticks, 
while  I  sit  blowing  it  with  my  mouth.  Do  you 
not  always  make  me  take  the  windy  side  of  the 
bush  when  it  blows  and  the  rainy  side  when  it 
rains  ? 

FINTAIN. 

O  good  fool,  listen  to  me.  Think  of  the  care  I 
have  taken  of  you.  I  have  brought  you  to  many 
a  warm  hearth,  where  there  was  a  good  welcome 
for  you,  but  you  would  not  stay  there,  you  were 
always  wandering  about. 

BARACH. 

The  last  time  you  brought  me  in,  it  was  not  I 
who  wandered  away,  but  you  that  got  put  out 
because  you  took  the  crubeen  out  of  the  pot, 
when  you  thought  nobody  was  looking.  Keep 
quiet  now,  keep  quiet  till  I  shut  the  door.  Here 
is  Cuchullain,  now  you  will  be  beaten.  I  am 
going  to  tell  him  everything. 

76 


CUCHULLAIN. 

(Comes  in  and  says  to  the  fool)  Give  me  that  horn. 
(The  fool  gives  him  a  horn  which  Cuchullain  fills 
with  ale  and  drinks.) 

FINTAIN. 
Do  not  listen  to  him,  listen  to  me. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
What  are  you  wrangling  over  ? 

BARACH. 
He  is  fat  and  good  for  nothing.      He  has  left  me 
the  bones  and  the  feathers. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
What  feathers  ? 

BARACH. 

I  left  him  turning  a  fowl  at  the  fire.  He  ate  it  all. 
He  left  me  nothing  but  the  bones  and  feathers. 

FINTAIN. 
Do   not  believe  him.      You   do   not   know   how 
vain  this  fool  is.      I  gave  him  the  feathers,  because 
I  thought  he  would  like  nothing  so  well. 

77 


(Barach  is  sitting  on  a  bench  playing  with  a  heap 

of  feathers  which  he  has  taken  out  of  the  breast 

of  his  coat.) 

BARACH. 

(Singing)  When  you  were  an  acorn  on  the  tree 

top  — 

FINTAIN. 

Where  would  he  be  but  for  me  ?  I  must  be 
always  thinking,  thinking  to  get  food  for  the  two 
of  us,  and  when  we've  got  it,  if  the  moon's  at  the 
full  or  the  tide  on  the  turn,  he'll  leave  the  rabbit 
in  its  snare  till  it  is  full  of  maggots,  or  let  the 
trout  slip  through  his  hands  back  into  the  water. 

BARACH. 
(Singing)  When  you  were  an  acorn  on  the  tree 

top, 
Then  was  I  an  eagle  cock  ; 
Now  that  you  are  a  withered  old  block, 
Still  am  I  an  eagle  cock ! 

FINTAIN. 
Listen  to  him  now  !     That's  the  sort  of  talk  I 
have  to  put  up  with  day  out  day  in.      (The  fool  is 

78 


putting  the  feathers  into  his  hair.  Cuchullain 
takes  a  handful  of  feathers  out  of  the  heap  and 
out  of  the  fool's  hair  and  begins  to  wipe  the 
blood  from  his  sword  with  them.) 

BARACH. 
He  has  taken  my  feathers  to  wipe  his  sword.     It 
is  blood  that  he  is  wiping  from  his  sword ! 

FINTAIN. 
Whose  blood  ?     Whose  blood  ? 

CUCHULLAIN. 
That  young  champion's. 

FINTAIN. 
He  that  came  out  of  Aoife's  country  ? 

CUCHULLAIN. 
The  Kings  are  standing  round  his  body. 

FINTAIN. 
Did  he  fight  long  ? 

CUCHULLAIN. 
He  thought  to  have  saved  himself  with  witchcraft. 

79 


BARACH. 
That  blind  man  there  said  he  would  kill  you. 
He  came  from  Aoife's  country  to  kill  you.  That 
blind  man  said  they  had  taught  him  every  kind 
of  weapon  that  he  might  do  it.  But  I  always 
knew  that  you  would  kill  him. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
(To  the  blind  man.)     You  knew  him,  then  ? 

FINTAIN. 
I    saw    him    when    I    had    my    eyes,    in    Aoife's 

country. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

You  were  in  Aoife's  country  ? 

FINTAIN. 
I  knew  him  and  his  mother  there. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
He  was  about  to  speak  of  her  when  he  died. 

FINTAIN. 

He  was  a  Queen's  son. 

80 


CUCHULLAIN. 
What  Queen,  what  Queen  ?   (He  seizes  the  blind 

man.) 

Was    it    Scathach?     There    were    many  Queens. 

All  the  rulers  there  were  Queens. 

FINTAIN. 
No,  not  Scathach. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

It  was  Uathach  then.     Speak,  speak  ! 

FINTAIN. 
I  cannot  speak,  you  are  clutching  me  too  tightly. 
(Cuchullain    lets  him  go.)      I    cannot    remember 
who    it  was.      I    am    not  certain.     It  was   some 

Queen. 

BARACH. 

He  said  a  while    ago  that   the  young  man  was 

Aoife's  son. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

She  ?    No,    no,    she    had    no    son    when    I    was 

there. 

g  81 


BARACH. 

That  blind  man  there  said  that  she  owned  him 

for  her  son. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

I  had  rather  he  had  been  some  other  woman's 
son.  What  father  had  he  ?  A  soldier  out  of 
Alba  ?  She  was  an  amorous  woman,  a  proud 
pale  amorous  woman. 

FINTAIN. 
None  knew  whose  son  he  was. 

CUCHULLAIN. 

None    knew  ?     Did    you   know,   old    listener   at 

doors  ? 

FINTAIN. 

No,  no,  I  knew  nothing. 

BARACH. 

He  said  a  while  ago  that  he  heard  Aoife  boast 
that  she'd  never  but  the  one  lover,  and  he  the 
only  man  that  had  overcome  her  in  battle.  (A 
pause.) 

82 


a 


FINTAIN. 
Somebody  is  trembling.     Why  are  you  trembling, 
fool  ?   the  bench  is  shaking,  why  are   you  trem- 
bling ?     Is  Cuchullain  going  to  hurt  us?     It  was 
not  I  who  told  you,  Cuchullain. 

BARACH. 
It  is  Cuchullain  who  is  trembling.     He  is  shak- 
ing the  bench  with  his  knees. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
He  was  my  son,  and  I  have  killed  my  son.     (A 
pause.) 

'Twas  they  that  did  it,  the  pale  windy  people, 
Where,  where,  where  ?      My    sword    against  the 

thunder. 
But  no,  for  they  have  always  been  my  friends ; 
And  though  they  love  to  blow  a  smoking  coal 
Till  it's  all  flame,  the  wars  they  blow  aflame 
Are  full  of  glory,  and  heart  uplifting  pride, 
And  not  like  this  ;  the  wars  they  love  awaken 
Old  fingers  and  the  sleepy  strings  of  harps. 
Who  did  it  then  ?     Are  you  afraid  ;  speak  out, 

83 


For  I  have  put  you  under  my  protection 

And  will  reward  you  well.     Dubthach  the  Chafer. 

He    had    an    old   grudge.      No,   for    he    is    with 
Maeve. 

Laegaire  did  it.     Why  do  you  not  speak  ? 

What  is  this  house  ?  (A  pause.)   Now  I  remem- 
ber all. 

FINTAIN. 

He  will  kill  us.     O,  I  am  afraid ! 

CUCHULLAIN. 

(Who  is  before  Concobar's  chair.)    'Twas  you  who 

did  it,  you  who  sat  up  there 
With  that  old  branch  of  silver,  like  a  magpie 
Nursing  a  stolen  spoon.      Magpie,  Magpie, 
A  maggot  that  is  eating  up  the  earth  ! 
(Begins  hacking  at  the  chair  with  his  sword.) 
No,  but  a  magpie  for  he's  flown  away. 
Where  did  he  fly  to  ? 

FINTAIN. 

He  is  outside  the  door. 

84 


CUCHULLAIN. 
Outside  the  door  ? 

FINTAIN. 
He  is  under  Baile's  yew-tree. 

CUCHULLAIN. 
Concobar,  Concobar,  the  sword  into  your  heart. 
(He  goes  out.     A  pause.     The  fool  goes  to  the 
great  door  at  back  and  looks  out  after  him.) 

BARACH. 

He  is  going  up  to  King  Concobar ;  they  are  all 
under  the  tree.  No,  no,  he  is  standing  still. 
There  is  a  great  wave  going  to  break  and  he  is 
looking  at  it.  Ah  !  now  he  is  running  down  to 
the  sea,  but  he  is  holding  up  his  sword  as  if  he 
were  going  into  a  fight.  (A  pause.)  Well  struck, 
well  struck  ! 

FINTAIN. 
What  is  he  doing  now  ? 

BARACH. 

O  !  he  is  fighting  the  waves. 

85 


FINTAIN. 

He  sees  King  Concobar's  crown  on  every  one  of 

them. 

BARACH. 

There,  he  has  struck  at  a  big  one.  He  has 
struck  the  crown  off  it,  he  has  made  the  foam  fly. 
There  again  another  big  one.   (Shouting  without.) 

FINTAIN. 

Where  are  the  Kings  ?  What  are  the  Kings 
doing  ? 

BARACH. 

They  are  shouting  and  running  down  to  the 
shore,  and  the  people  are  running  out  of  the 
houses,  they  are  all  running. 

FINTAIN. 

You    say    they    are   running  out  of  the    houses, 

there  will  be  nobody  left  in  the  houses.     Listen, 

fool. 

BARACH. 

There,  he  is  down!  He  is  up  again!  He  is 
going  out  into  the  deep  water. 

86 


FINTAIN. 
Come  here,  fool ;  come  here,  I  say. 

BARACH. 

(Coming    towards    him    but    looking    backward 
towards  the  door.)     What  is  it  ? 

FINTAIN. 
There  will  be  nobody  in  the  houses.     Come  this 
way,  come  quickly ;    the  ovens  will  be  full ;  we 
will   put    our  hands  into  the  ovens.     (They  go 
out.) 


■ 


87 


ESSAYS,  ETC. 

by  William  Butler  Yeats 


"  Leader  of  one  of  the  most  notable  contemporary  movements  —  the 
Celtic  revival  in  Ireland,  decidedly  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with  both 
at  the  present  moment  and  in  the  future."  —  Boston  Transcript. 


THE  CELTIC  TWILIGHT 

With  portrait  and  some  new  chapters.    $1.50,  net. 

"  Subtle,  elusive,  keen  with  insight,  and  beautiful  with  the  haunting 
beauty  of  the  aptly  chosen  word  ...  a  veritable  contribution  to 
literature."  —  The  New  York  Herald. 


IDEAS  C?  GOOD  AND  EVIL 

Cloth.        i2mo.        $1.50,  net. 

"The  best  book  of  its  kind  that  has  appeared  since  Maeterlinck's 
'Buried  Temple,'  full  of  deep  thought,  of  excellent  criticism,  and 
of  beautiful  writing."  —  London  letter  to  the  Chicago  Evening  Post. 


WHERE  THERE  IS  NOTHING 

Vol.  I.  of  "  Plays  for  an  Irish  Theatre."     Cloth.     $1.25,  net. 
Large  paper  limited  edition  (100  numbered  copies)  on  Japanese 
vellum,  $5.00,  net. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY,   Publishers 
66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


JTTk.TTT7T?T»  CTHT'IT'      /Ml      riiTTrAn\TT»        T   TTITI     AT»»T 

14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
P       Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


T\ 


m      '^ed 


i& 


■:"»  7?'69»aP»l 


LOAN  PEJPT* 


NOV    2  1971  i  ■) 


7,K 


d: 

LD  21-1  OOw 


FECI)  ID    N6V 


JAN  1  9  1975 


J* 


ftVB. 


~ 


-H- 


LD  21A-40m-2,'69 
(J6057sl0)476 — A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


iOGM 


m% 


8  7MIAH68      * 


Z.2.  foS"T 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


mini 


